Trying Something New
by sandra70
Summary: They haven't been on Neverland for long, when Killian overhears a conversation between Emma and her mother about whether it's wise or not to trust a pirate.


_**Trying Something New**_

He really doesn't want to be here, there are bloody reasons why he once swore to himself that he'd never again set foot on this island. The jungle is just as oppressive as he remembers it, it's hot, humid and hostile, with long, thorny fingers that seem to reach out for you, and prying eyes watching you all the time. And the noises. Neverland is full of unnerving noises that he hoped he'd never have to hear again. Chirping and creaking, grumbling and grinding, whispering and wailing. And the Lost Boys, of course. Innocent children, stolen from their homes, turned into vicious rascals. No, Killian really _really_ doesn't want to be here.

Alas, he had no other choice.

 _But you had,_ suddenly a gentle, benign voice whispers in his head, _just like all the times before, with your little brother and later with Baelfire – you had a choice. And like on those occasions before, you could have chosen the wrong path and do the selfish, the villainous thing. You could have sailed away and use that bean for yourself, leaving the heroes and their little town to perish, but you didn't. You came back to save them, and when that wasn't necessary anymore, you offered to help saving the lad. You weren't forced to, you did it by your own free will. You had a choice, and this time, you chose to do the right thing._

He raises his eyebrows, almost startled by that unexpected voice. Oh, he's heard voices in his head before, but mostly they've been telling him what a despicable excuse for a human being he was, failing or deceiving anyone around him, despite everything he'd once hold dear about _good form_. How disappointed Liam would be, how the world would be a better place without him.

But now? It's not like that one time he did the right thing could undo all of his misdeeds, of course not, but perhaps... perhaps Liam would approve of him being here. For the right reason this time.

As he approaches the camp, coming back from his search to provide some food, he hears voices, Swan and her mother, the princess bandit. They stayed in the camp to guard the fire and braid rope while the Queen and the Prince were headed for the lake to replenish their water supplies and keep an eye on the premises.

He hasn't planned on eavesdropping, but something in the voices of the two women makes him slow down his steps, and then he stops dead in his tracks when her hears what the princess bandit says.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to let _him_ guide us?"

Killian's ears prick up, and he angles his head a little to peek through the thick foliage of the trees and get a look at the women. Swan is sitting with her back to him, while he has a good sight on her mother's skeptical face. She's obviously talking about him. Unconsciously, he holds his breath to hear Emma's reply.

She shrugs. "Well, yeah, since he's the only one who's ever been to this island. He lived here." He's relieved that Swan seems to trust him, at least a little.

"He could lead us right into a trap," her mother points out.

"What?" He smiles to himself when he imagines Swan's face scrunch into that frown of hers.

"He could work for Pan," the princess bandit suggests, and he has to admit to himself that the suspicion must be plausible for anyone not knowing anything about his history with Pan.

"Why would he do that?" Emma questions in return.

"Because he's a _pirate_!" her mother blurts out in an exasperated voice, and he averts his eyes even if no one's looking at him. "Since we met him, he's always had his own agenda," she continues, "and he's _never_ done anything that didn't benefit him in some way. His loyalties have changed faster than the weather!" Snow White, blurting out some painful truths; the fairest of them all has never been the one for fair talking. Alas, he can't even blame her. His shoulders sag a little.

"You mean, like Regina?" Swan asks with a snort, and his lips pull into a smile. "One moment she's trying to take Henry away and destroy the town, and next she's planning to sacrifice herself to save everyone?"

The princess bandit protests, "You can't quite compare–"

"Come on," Emma argues, "you know I'm right. Do we _know_ that she won't flip again if she gets the chance to save Henry and leave us behind?"

"But, Emma–"

"The answer is, we don't," Emma states soberly. "But I trust her. I think she's starting to understand. And so is he."

"You think so?"

From behind, he can see Emma shrug. "He didn't even know Greg and Tamara had taken Henry when he came back with the magic bean, let alone where they were bringing him." She's really defending him, and it elates him to stupid amounts. His ringed index finger finds its way behind his ear to rub at some imaginary itchy spot.

"Are we sure about that?" comes the princess bandit's doubtful reply.

It seems like her words are finally coming through to Emma; she nods slowly and agrees, "You're right." Killian drops his head. Of course she'd think the worst of him, often enough that was all he showed her. No, he doesn't have anyone to blame for that than himself.

"He's shady," Emma confirms, "and he did switch sides often enough. But he only went back to Cora after I betrayed him first." He looks up again just in the right moment to see her mother trying to interject something, but Emma holds up her hand to silence the attempt.

"And you're wrong about one thing," she says firmly and goes on to explain, "Remember our sword fight back in the Enchanted Forest?" Snow White frowns in confusion. "He risked losing it," Emma points out, "and he even risked falling through the portal and ending up God knows where, when he pulled that stunt and saved Aurora's heart. He had nothing to gain from that, but everything to lose."

Snow White sways her dark head from side to side. "That wasn't the reason you beat him, though."

He almost can't hear Emma's next words, because she's mumbling. "Yeah, about that... I'm not even sure I actually did." He's a little surprised, but then again, he shouldn't. Smiling to himself, he thinks, _Clever girl. I surely did my best to lose that fight._

Her mother doesn't comment on that any further, which surprises him a bit. After a little pause, she asks out of the blue, "Emma, are you attracted to him?" Involuntarily, he ducks a little deeper into the foliage and holds his breath, more eager to hear Emma's answer than he likes to admit.

She huffs. "What? No, of course not."

The princess bandit gives her daughter the best example of a stern motherly look, and immediately Emma starts to defend herself. "It's far more than that." He raises his eyebrows and notices with amused delight that she starts to ramble. "I mean, it's _not_ , it's..." She runs her hand through her hair and draws a deep breath. "Look, Mary Margaret, I... I trust him," she finally declares, and his old, shriveled heart clenches unexpectedly at her words.

"Why?" Snow White inquires.

Emma shrugs again. "I don't know. I just... I just do."

The simplicity of her words takes his breath away. He remembers the guarded, closed off woman he met in the Enchanted Forest what seems like an eternity ago now; the woman who did not only _not_ trust him, but who, even when her super power obviously led her to believe in his honesty, told him she couldn't risk to be wrong about him. And now? She trusts him in a matter no less important than a mission to save her lad's life, and she does that in spite of not even having a reason to, and explanation for it. It's almost like she... she _believes_ in him and allows herself to do it this time. Killian Jones cannot remember the last time anyone believed _in him_.

Snow White seems to contemplate her daughter's words for a moment, then she states matter-of-factly, "And you don't trust easily." She smiles at Emma and nods. "You were right about him when we first met him, and you were also right about Tamara." She shrugs. "I suppose your super power would warn us if he tried to lead us into a trap." The princess bandit, always pragmatic, and always focused on the greater goal. He really does admire her, as he does every strong woman.

"He won't," comes Emma's firm reply, and he's heard enough. He needs to see her face now.

With a few long and noisy steps, Killian comes out of the woods and enters the camp, making himself well heard before so the women don't suspect him of eavesdropping. He's carrying a rag sack with his hook, the result of his food search mission inside. Both women are looking up as he approaches them, and he notices with delight that Emma looks a little flustered. He can't help but flash a big grin which she returns with a glare.

"Wanna try something new, Swan?" he asks cockily, the use of the words he once challenged her with as an advice may or may not be a coincidence. She raises her eyebrows suspiciously, but before she can say anything, he reaches into his sack and pulls out something. "A fluttering heart?"

" _What?"_ she snaps indignantly. Her mother doesn't speak, but he can feel her eyes trying to decipher him as they dart to and fro between him and her daughter.

His grin widens. "It's a fruit," he explains in an amused tone and offers her one that is indeed roughly of the size and shape of a human heart but looks also a bit like a plump rotting pear, all brown and wrinkly.

Promptly, Emma wrinkles her nose in disgust. "That looks gross."

He tilts his head and pulls back his hand. "You shouldn't judge it by its rough exterior," he comments and cuts the thick skin open with the sharp point of his hook. "Just peel away the rind," he deftly folds it open, revealing a peachy pulp with tiny brown seeds, "and you'll find on the inside it's," he holds his hand out to her again, fixing his eyes on hers, "soft and sweet."

Emma swallows, feeling ridiculously hypnotized by his intense gaze and his words that, like so often, seem to bear some hidden meaning. As if by its own will, her hand reaches out to take the offered fruit from him, and a little electric shock wave runs through her hand and up her arm when her fingers brush against his palm. For a moment, time seems to freeze. Mary Margaret clears her throat, and the momentary spell is broken.

"I've never heard of it," she says, but it doesn't sound hostile or suspicious, just curious.

"Would surprise me if you had, Milady," he replies and fetches another sample from his sack and cuts it open the same way as he did with Emma's. "As far as I'm aware, they grow only here on this island." He hands her the half-peeled fruit, and she takes it with a nod.

Mother and daughter exchange a glance, and then Emma takes a hearty bite. The pulp is indeed soft, almost creamy, and tastes sweet. "Thanks," she murmurs a little reluctantly in his direction, and he drops the sack with a nod and scratches behind his ear, averting his eyes.

Mary Margaret starts to eat, too, and moments later David and Regina enter the camp, and she's distracted from pondering over what she just witnessed.

A few hours later though, after they've all eaten and set up the watch schedule for the night, she sits down beside Emma who's trying to find a comfortable position for a few hours of sleep. She clears her throat, and Emma frowns suspiciously.

"So," Mary Margaret starts and motions her head vaguely towards the path leading outside the camp, where Hook has just left to take the first watch, "what was that about?"

Almost like a reflex, Emma tries to feign ignorance, but she feels a bit ridiculous, as her mother is so clearly and obviously referring to the pirate she refuses thinking about. "What do you mean?"

"That earlier talk," Mary Margaret specifies patiently, "about and a soft core with a rough exterior?A fluttering heart?"

"The fruit?" Emma raises her hands in defense. "I wasn't born in fairytale land, if _you_ don't know it, how am _I_ supposed to?"

Mary Margaret cocks her head to the side in a surprisingly Hook-ish way. "Please, Emma. That man wasn't talking about a fruit, and you know it."

" _What?!"_ Emma gasps in an annoyed voice. "That's rid–"

"You heard him," her mother cuts her off, "he said it himself. He _fancies_ you."

"Seriously? That was just his usual big mouth," she argues, feeling a little blush coming up and hating how defensive she sounds. "You know him!"

"Do I?" Mary Margaret asks skeptically and answers her own question, "I only know the way he looks at you–"

Emma rolls her eyes. "Oh come _on_ , Mary Margaret–"

But she doesn't relent and finishes her sentence, "...when he thinks nobody's paying attention to him."

And with that, she gracefully raises to her feet and saunters over to her husband who has already laid down, leaving a space for her by his side on the makeshift bed he's prepared on the ground. And a flustered Emma is left to grumpily bury her nose into her leather jacket she's folded underneath her head. _Great_. This is all turning out just great. She's here to rescue her son, and pondering over Hook's motives and intentions isn't gonna help with that – which is why she's in strong denial, because of fucking _course_ she has noticed that there was more to his talk about that fruit than just a culinary lecture. But she doesn't have the time or the nerves to explore this any further, it would be an awfully big adventure she's just not ready for. Why can't Mary Margaret just let it go?

Killian still doesn't want to be here, but well, here he is, and he can bloody well make the best of it. He's still in high spirits from ear-witnessing the trust Emma Swan puts in him, and the strong pull he's always felt towards her has somehow gained a new dimension. At first, it had been a – very strong – physical attraction that seemed to lure him again and again near her. Then, quickly, he found that her spirit, her fierceness, heightened that attraction, added a challenge to the mix. But now... something about her seems to speak to a part of him long forgotten and well and deeply buried inside. Whether it's his soul or his heart or something entirely different, he doesn't know, and he isn't even sure he can handle it... but he's ready to find out.

He sighs and scans the darkness with his eyes once more, knowing that to properly keep watch in Neverland, one must always have alert senses.

When a sudden noise startles him, he jumps to his feet and draws his sword, just to find himself face to face with the princess bandit.

"Whoa," she exclaims, raising her hands in defense, "I'm just here to take over watch."

He exhales in relief. "Apologies, Milady," he murmurs and sheaths his sword again, "but the time I spent on this accursed island taught me that constant vigilance is imperative."

Mary Margaret scrutinizes him closely, realizing that this is one of the rare occasions the pirate has let slip some snippet about his own past. "How long were you here?" she inquires.

Hook tilts his head. "Longer than I preferred."

She waits for him to elaborate further, but obviously he's planning to stick with his evasiveness, having no intention to let on any more. "Why?"

Only the slightest bit of annoyance flies across his – undoubtedly handsome – face. "I came here to stay alive long enough to plan and exact my revenge on an immortal foe," he explains matter-of-factly, "but when I wanted to leave again to finally get it, I learned that Pan doesn't let anyone out of his grip once they're in his reach." For a moment, his gaze fades into the distance, and a muscle in his jaw ticks as he continues, "He likes his toys."

"Are we his toys now?" she asks, more interest than worry in her voice.

He snorts. "I'm sure the little brat thinks so." Tilting his head, he remarks in a rather satisfied voice, "Well, he won't know what hit him."

She frowns curiously. "And what's that?"

He smirks. "An alliance like none he's ever seen." After a pause he adds, "And Emma."

Mary Margaret narrows her eyes as she continues to scrutinize him with probing looks, and he averts his eyes and scratches behind his ear, suddenly appearing to be a little nervous, which seems to be highly unusual for him. So far she hasn't seen him act other than outright villainous or just like a smug bastard. And even if since he's invited them on his ship to take them on this rescue mission, he hasn't been either, he still hasn't shown himself vulnerable or nervous. Interested in her daughter? Yes. But until now, it hasn't appeared to be more than simple attraction. But now he's behaving like he's somehow given away too much, more than he intended to, anyway. And she'll be damned if that hasn't a lot to do with Emma

It isn't lost on her that he hasn't referred to her daughter as _the Savior_ , but simply as _Emma_ ; she will later ponder over that and what it means. She raises her chin. "Why are you here?" she wants to know.

Hook raises an eyebrow. "To save your grandson, it would seem."

"Why?" she insists. "I mean, what's so important to you that you come back to this... personal hell of yours, if I get that right?" She leans forward to study his face and sees the confirmation that she's indeed right – Neverland _is_ a personal hell for this man. "Just to impress Emma?"

He looks away again, but only for a second, before he has his features under control again. "Shouldn't you be glad that I got you all here?" he asks back almost defiantly. "Why question my motives?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, I'm not questioning them, or you," she clarifies, and that seems to placate him again. "But I've learned something, too, in my years of hiding and constant fighting," she goes on and registers that apparently that admission has sparked his attention. She continues to explain, "That it's better to _know_ the people who you fight with, because you might have to trust them with your life at some point." She crosses her arms and prompts, "So – would you humor me?"

For a few moments, Hook seems to struggle with himself, and that's something she's never seen him do. Finally, he tilts his head again, as if he's nodding to himself, and replies, "Because I made a terrible mistake once, out of selfishness, that led to the suffering of an innocent boy."

Mary Margaret freezes when the pirate's tale reminds her of a mistake of her own, borne of selfishness, that destroyed the life of a child and its mother... because even if it had sprung from a dragon egg, a child it had been.

"That boy," Hook continues, "was Baelfire, your grandson's father." That admission surprises her, because what were the odds? But then, it shouldn't be a surprise, really, because it seems to be fate that keeps connecting them all, in one way or another. "I know I can never make up for that by helping rescue Henry, but..." He falls silent and averts his eyes, scratching behind his ear.

"But it matters _now_. It matters to _you,_ " Mary Margaret murmurs almost absentmindedly and nods slowly. "I know exactly what you mean." When he raises a skeptical eyebrow, she tells him, "David and I, we weren't always heroes, you know."

That admission seems to impress him, but she also notices that he tries to cover it up with feigned nonchalance and an almost flippant tone. "Well, perhaps then there's still hope for me."

"There's always hope," she affirms solemnly, and he obviously considers her words for a moment before he nods slowly, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps," he then says and tilts his head in a bow, turning to move away.

"Hook?" she calls him back impulsively, and he turns around, eyeing her curiously, expectantly.

"Maybe it's time you tried something new, too?" she suggests.

He frowns. "And what's that?"

"To believe."

"Oh, I do believe, love," he confirms and adds, "As I said, with a bunch of magic wielders and heroes, Pan doesn't stand a chance."

Mary Margaret nods without taking her eyes off his and quietly replies, "I didn't mean in others, Hook."

Killian gets immediately what the princess bandit means, and he's more than surprised, pleasantly surprised, that she would put her moral superiority into perspective and admit to him of all people that she and the prince haven't always been who they were now. And send encouraging words his way, insinuating that he doesn't have to be forever who he used to be, that his past doesn't define him. He withstands her firm gaze, and after a short pause returns her nod pensively.

"Aye, maybe."

Then, slowly, he turns away and walks back into the camp almost without making a noise. Everyone's asleep, and the fire is low and about to die down, so he puts on another log and walks to the other side of the fire, where a big tree stump promises to provide some support to lean against.

When he walks past Emma, the freshly flickering fire throws a warm shine on her face, and he sees that her brow is creased; obviously she's not even relaxed in her sleep, but troubled by the worries about her lad. A slight shiver runs through her frame, and for a moment he contemplates waking her up and comfort her somehow, but then he refrains from it; she needs her rest, there's trying times ahead of them, and who knows what perfidious game Pan has thought up for tomorrow. For now, he can't do anything but contributing to her safety, and tomorrow he'll try to cheer her up again and encourage her and make sure she believes in her own strength beyond the tough facade she puts up.

When he becomes aware of his train of thoughts, he shakes his head to himself with a little smile while slowly walking over to his sleeping place. This is all new to him, and even if he got reminded that he actually _could_ care for someone else than himself – he's still not used to the feeling. But he finds that he _does_ care, and it feels... good. The princess bandit... maybe she was right.

"Maybe," he whispers as he sits down and settles against the trunk, trying to find a comfortable position to get some shut eye.

Later, when Emma wakes up from the sound of her mother's soft voice, she feels relaxed and comfortable and reluctant to open her eyes, but Mary Margaret's hand at her shoulder indicates that it's her turn to take watch. A pleasant, comforting smell engulfs her, most probably a remnant from a soothing dream, and she sighs when she rubs her eyes.

"Emma..." Mary Margaret whispers again.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she murmurs and sits up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. _Wait_ , she thinks, _what blanket?_ and then she sees Mary Margaret's questioning glance and her raised eyebrow. She frowns and has trouble adapting her eyes to the semi-darkness, only lit by the flickering fire, but then she notices what her mother is looking at. The blanket that has slipped from her shoulder is actually heavy and made of black leather, and it's not a blanket at all, but Hook's stupid enormous coat.

"I'm lying down now," Mary Margaret says, "everything's been quiet," without commenting otherwise, and Emma feels a warmth heat her cheeks that doesn't come from the fire.

"Okay," she replies and scrambles hastily to her feet and, turning away from her mother, carries the coat over to where Hook is sleeping in a half-sitting position, head and shoulders leaned against a trunk. It doesn't look really comfortable, but he seems to be relaxed, and she supposes during the life he's led he's learned to sleep in less cozy places, very much like she has.

He looks less like the intimidating pirate captain without his coat and with his handsome features relaxed in his sleep, younger, like when she first met him. She vividly remembers the occasion, remembers the conflicting feelings he caused then... and still does, that hasn't changed.

But something _has_ changed, the balance has shifted, she's well aware of that. Not only does she trust him today, but she also trusts herself, her own instincts – she knows she's not wrong about him, and this time the risk she can't take is not to follow that instinct.

Emma forces herself to snap out of her musings, because she can feel her mother's scrutiny in her back. She carefully folds Hook's coat, the leather cool and smooth against her fingertips, and places it on the ground beside him, gently, so she doesn't wake him up. Then she pries her eyes away from him and turns around to leave the camp and take her watch.

The next morning, they get up early and have some fruit for breakfast before they pack up.

"Hey," Emma addresses Hook while he meticulously puts out the fire, and when he shoots her a questioning glance, she adds almost casually, "I just wanted to say thank you... for last night."

He cocks an eyebrow and flashes her a crooked grin full of devilish mischief. "Last night, you say?" he asks pointedly. "Don't tell me that anything..." he pauses for a moment to run his tongue through his mouth, " _memorable_ has happened between us, and I was just too inebriated to remember it?"

She rolls her eyes and already moves to turn away abruptly, because _God_ that man is _so_ annoying, but then she remembers what Mary Margaret has told her the day before, about how he's looking at her when nobody seems to notice. She has a feeling that part of his impertinent bravado might just be a mask to hide behind whatever it is that haunts him and caused him to choose to live a life as lonely as hers had ever been.

So, she just says, "I meant your coat."

His hand comes up to scratch behind his ear as he tilts his head. "Ah well," he shrugs nonchalantly, "the nights in this jungle can get colder than one would reckon."

"Yeah." She nods and presses her lips into a reluctant little smile. "It's good to have someone with us who is familiar with this island."

"That would be me," he comments more than he asks and sways out his hand in the hint of a ridiculous little bow.

"I'm serious," she almost snaps, feeling annoyance well up inside. Why can't he just accept an honest _thank you_ or a compliment?

"Ready to go?" David interrupts their exchange grumpily and waves his arm briskly in the direction of the narrow path leading out of their camp. "Then lead the way, pirate."

Hook mock-bows again, in David's direction this time, and slings his satchel over his shoulder. "I appreciate your trust," he suddenly throws in Emma's direction in a soothing voice and with an apologetic smile. When she nods again, he remarks, because of course he can't just let it go, "I was just joking, by the way." When Emma raises her own eyebrows in question, he explains matter-of-factly, "if anything memorable had happened between us, rest assured that I would remember."

She rolls her eyes again, and he steps into her personal space which he seems to be making a habit of. He leans forward a bit and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial murmur that sends an annoying tingle down her spine.

"And so would you."


End file.
